Mr Claus's Lucky Day
by Rhianwen
Summary: In which circumstances conspire to force Drake into a Santa suit, Anita relishes in his humiliation, and Wendy has an inlaw induced meltdown. Healthy amounts of Drake x Wendy married!fluff, guest starring two Maggies, a Michelle, and an Anita.


Mr. Claus's Lucky Day

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Summary: In which circumstances conspire to force Drake into a Santa suit, Anita relishes in his humiliation, and Wendy has a family-induced meltdown. Healthy amounts of Drake x Wendy married!fluff, guest appearances by Maggie, Michelle, and Anita. Yeah, I know I missed Christmas by a week and a half...

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The twenty-second day of December, nine o' clock in the morning.

Outside the window of a warm, bright kitchen, the snow fell softly, blanketing the silent streets in white.

Saturday morning, a cup of hot coffee, and a newspaper.

For Drake Anderson, all was quiet, contentment, and serenity.

"AAAAAAAAARGH!"

He looked up briefly from his paper as a little flannel-and-cotton-clad blonde stormed into the kitchen.

"Morning, Kitten," he greeted casually.

"Your brother is impossible," she informed him hotly, nevertheless taking a detour from her beeline to the coffee pot, to give him a good-morning cuddle.

He hid a grin, tugging her arms around him from behind. Wendy and his brother had been butting heads ever since Russell had shown up flat broke and jobless, three months ago (_Just until I get back on my feet, two weeks at the most, I swear_), with his philosophy that_what's Drake's is mine_, and his idea that this might extend to marital benefits with the cute blonde with her big blue eyes, long legs and sharp tongue.

His advances had been about as welcome as a fur coat in a heat wave, and Wendy had long since finished with being _subtle_, so Drake had been pretty content to sit back and watch Russ get ripped to pieces, despite his initial instincts to do the ripping himself.

"He spy on you in the shower again?"

"No, he—" She stopped short, and he felt a glare burning into the back of his head. "Hold on, what? _Again_?"

"What did Russ do this time?" he asked quickly, turning his chair and pulling her down into his lap.

Wendy rolled her eyes.

"He staggered in here at about two-thirty last night, when I was downstairs getting a drink of water. He asked me to get him up at nine, because he starts a new job today."

Drake raised an eyebrow, impressed.

"Russ got a job?"

"And now he's going to miss his first day, because he's still in bed, whining how his head hurts, and his stomach hurts, and his mouth feels like something died in it, and there's no way he can get up." She made a scornful noise. "I tried shouting at him and poking him, and then I tried to drag him out of bed by his toe, but he just threw his alarm clock at me."

"Who the hell would hire _Russel_?" Drake wondered aloud.

"He's dressing up as Santa at the mall."

He stared.

"Santa?"

"From what I could make out."

"Huh. Well, at leas he has the red nose most of the time."

"It's so sad," Wendy lamented, eyes huge and despondent, "that now the poor children won't have their Santa Claus."

Drake snorted.

"What do you want me to do about it, head down there and tell the little rugrats that Santa can't come in today because he's too hung over to move?"

When her face lit up with pure elated inspiration, he groaned inwardly. Love the girl as he might (and did), whenever Wendy got An Idea, it tended to lead to a hell of a lot of trouble in his near future.

"You know, you're the same size as your brother…"

"Forget it," he said flatly.

She twisted around in his arms to give him an imploring look.

"Ohh, why not?"

"Because, I'm not going anywhere near a mall the weekend before Christmas. Especially not in a Santa-suit."

"Come on, Drake, think of all the disappointed little children! They dragged themselves out of bed early, on a _Saturday_, fought through a _blizzard_ almost, and stood in line for hours, just to see Santa, and now they won't get to!"

"Okay, Miss Drama Queen, first of all, they'll have other people there to do it—"

She fixed him with a stern eye as she went merrily about interrupting.

"Drake, you know as well as I do that the city is facing a huge shortage of workers right now. How else—"

"—could Russell have gotten a job, yeah, I know," he grumbled. "But come on; you really think they'll be happy if they hire a guy, and his brother shows up instead?"

"Happier than they'll be if _no one_ shows up," she replied. "And anyway, you'll be in a Santa-suit! You look enough alike already—"

"Hey!"

"—and you'll be completely covered by the beard and everything. No one will know the difference!"

"Sounds good, except for one thing."

"Alright…"

"Explain to me the part where it's _my_ responsibility to make up for my idiot brother's drinking binge."

"It's not about making up for him!" she protested. "It's about the smiling faces of all those little children when they see Santa!"

"Yeah, right. You mean, all those screaming little brats already cranky because they've had to stand in line for an hour."

"But you _like_ kids!"

"Sure, when it's not three days before Christmas. And anyway, we've got my entire extended family showing up this afternoon."

She fixed him with a stern eye, the effect of which was rather undermined by the happily smiling fluffy cartoon sheep sprinkled liberally over her flannel pyjama pants.

"Drake, I'm not completely incompetent. I'm perfectly capable of putting on a pot of coffee and putting some cookies on a tray. I'll look after the guests until you get back."

"I don't know, kiddo. You sure you want to cook a turkey and twenty-seven side dishes and entertain a bunch of people you've never met, on your own?"

"Maggie will be here soon, won't she? She'll make sure nothing gets neglected or catches fire. Come on, just think about how much she'll love it!"

Drake snorted.

"Yeah, she'll have a great time, laughing at her poor embarrassed father," he grumbled, nevertheless allowing the beginnings of a smile.

"That's reason enough, isn't it?"

"Nope."

"C'mon, Drake, don't you want the sweet little girls and boys to flock to you and sit on your knee and tell you what they want for Christmas?"

"Nope," he grinned. "I'll settle for you sitting on my knee and telling me what you want for bedtime."

She sighed resignedly. There was no help for it. This would be horribly embarrassing, but for the greater good, she would have to try.

Twisting around in his arms, she swung one leg over his, sat back against his lap, and gazed down at him imploringly.

"Isn't there _anything_ I can offer you to change your mind?"

He stared back, arms crossed, one eyebrow lifting.

"Suggest something."

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Twenty minutes later, the sound of heavy black boots on the steps rang through the house, providing a solid rhythmic base for an enthusiastic chorus of grumbles, only slightly muffled by a thick white artificial beard.

As the looming red-clad shape stomped into the living room, Wendy leapt up from the couch with a delighted noise somewhere between a squeak and a giggle.

"You make a perfect Santa!"

"And_you're_ a manipulative little brat."

She grinned.

"What's the use of having feminine wiles if you can't use them?"

Maintaining his grumpy expression with something of a struggle, he ran one gloved hand over her waist and around behind to give his favourite of her_wiles_ a firm squeeze.

"Okay, but don't even think about trying to weasel out of it. Remember—"

"I know, full-body massage, gingerbread-scented oil, wearing only your Santa-hat," she finished hastily.

"Hey, you're just lucky I didn't go with my first instinct."

She glared heatedly.

"Absolutely not."

He cackled wickedly.

"Come on, Wendy, what about the kids?"

"I am _not_ serving Christmas dinner to your entire extended family in nothing but an apron."

"You'd be a family favourite in under ten seconds."

"I think I'd prefer to do that through my dazzling personality and fabulous cooking."

"Huh. So, how are you _actually_ planning to do it?"

"By making sure that everyone's wine and beer glasses remain full all night," she replied airily.

He nodded thoughtfully.

"Alcohol. Should work."

"Thank-you!" she beamed. "Now, hurry up. You'll be late."

"Look, are you sure you're going to be okay if Anita and her sisters get here before I get back?"

"Of course. Why wouldn't I be?"

He shrugged awkwardly.

"Well, I don't know. I know they're okay with us and everything, but I'd kind of rather be here."

"So, we'll pray for plane delays," Wendy said, waving off his concern with far more indifference than she felt. But there were things a woman just had to do, in the name of the greater good. _The greater good_, of course, being her husband in a silly costume.

"What are you going to tell Russell when he wakes up?"

"That if he even _thinks_ about touching the Christmas stash, I'll break his fingers."

Drake gave a long, long-suffering sigh.

"I meant about the job."

She shrugged.

"I'll just tell him the truth: I pestered you into taking his place because I'd had enough of ducking the things he threw at me when I tried to wake him."

"Sounds good."

"Anything to add?"

He thought carefully.

"Yeah. Tell him: _I'm keeping the money, dumbass_. _Love, Drake_."

She cackled at the thought of Russel's expression, then grabbed the furry white collar of his coat and dragged him down for a quick kiss.

"I'll tell him. Have fun, Mr. Claus."

"Yeah, fat chance," he grumbled as he pulled the front door shut behind him.

As he trudged out to the car, he felt a slight inkling that between his Santa-duty and Wendy's company-duty, he was getting by far the better deal. His family was great, in theory, but they had an overwhelming tendency to intimidate the hell out of the faint-hearted. Especially the faint-hearted who had recently married into the family, and had yet to be thrown to the wolves for the first time.

But what the hell. He'd married her pretty much straight out of prison; surely their guests wouldn't be anything she couldn't handle.

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"I don't think I can handle this," approximately two hours later saw that same hardened ex-con confiding to the telephone receiver.

Maggie made a sympathetic noise and mentally patted her stepmom's shoulder comfortingly

"Sure you can. I've been quizzing you on this stuff all week!"

"Have I mentioned that I used to crumble under exam-stress and forget everything I studied?"

"Look, if you're that worried, let's go over the dinner tomorrow. Allergies and other dietary considerations?"

Setting down her mug and squaring her shoulders, Wendy concentrated on recalling a week's worth of meticulously stored knowledge and snapping it off as quickly and flawlessly as she ever had when questioned by a ruthless and sadistic madman, instead of a sweet, friendly teenage girl who had spent December in socks decorated with snowmen and reindeers.

"Your grandfather can't have cranberries, your grandmother can't have pecans, your Uncle Neil doesn't drink red wine, Blair doesn't drink white, Sasha and Kim don't drink at all, Greta is allergic to horseradish but loves it, so we'll have to keep it at the other end of the table. Neil and Melissa's daughter Claire is allergic to peanuts, her sister Laura is a vegan, Greta's husband Theo is morally opposed to Tofurkey – we'll seat them far apart – and Russel is a raging alcoholic."

Caught in the middle of a slurp of hot chocolate, Maggie choked on a laugh.

"No kidding. Has he found Dad's Christmas Stash yet?"

"Not yet. Or if he has, he's showing remarkable restraint. We've only hidden it in the bedroom closet, so he's either not very bright, or he enjoys having fingers." A long pause. "Em, Maggie?"

"Yeah?"

Wendy twisted the phone cord nervously.

"What time did you say you would be coming this afternoon?"

"Okay, stop hinting," the young lady ordered with a giggle. "Mom's going to bring me over as soon as she's back from the store. But just in case I can't get there before people start coming, let's talk coffee. Aunt Sasha, Uncle Neil, Uncle Manny, Aunt Kim, and Grandpa take their coffee black, Laura takes hers with sugar and non-dairy hazelnut creamer, Uncle Blair takes his with cream and no sugar, Grandma, Uncle Theo, Aunt Greta, and Aunt Melissa take cream _and_ sugar, and Uncle Russ drinks his with Bailey's. Lots of Bailey's. In fact, just forget the coffee and give him a mug of that. Great Uncle Carl likes tea with skim milk and lots of sugar. Most of the kids like hot chocolate, so you're safe there, but Matt gets sick when he has chocolate, so we bought some apple cider. But he'll cry if the other kids get hot chocolate and he doesn't, so you have to make it sound like the cider is a special secret treat that only _he_ gets."

Wendy dropped her head to her hand and groaned painfully. Maggie made a noise of good-natured impatience.

"I'm serious, Wendy, quit stressing! We're pretty easy-going most of the time. We just happen to be a bunch of lunatics, too."

"Splendid."

"Hey, Dad warned you."

"I know, I know," Wendy grumbled. "I'm looking forward to seeing everyone, just in a way that also involves being terrified out of my mind and longing to run screaming into the night."

"Weird," Maggie noted. "Dad says the same thing every year."

Wendy, however, was no longer listening, as the crunch of snow on the front steps had become audible.

"Oh, no; someone's here."

"Okay, just take a deep breath, and make sure your weapon is loaded," Maggie ordered. "I know these people; they'll eat you alive if you give 'em the chance."

"Right, I'll see you later, smartass," Wendy grumbled to her snickering stepdaughter before replacing the receiver and hurrying to the front door just as the bell sounded.

With hands shaking badly enough to give the impression of a caffiene addict on cold turkey, she dragged the door open.

There, on the front step, were three young women, one very tall and topped in spiky dark, one around her own height and topped in wavy blonde, and one several inches shorter and topped in short wild pink. Behind them loomed a number of brown paper bags, packed nearly to bursting point with books. Just to the left of the tallest girl's shoulder hovered a pigeon.

Michelle Cheung, Maggie Mui, and Anita King. Who, last she had heard, still considered her a wary accquaintance at best.

Wendy hurled herself gratefully at the eldest of the girls.

"My God, I'm so glad to see you!"

Michelle, whose first instinct at a red, white, and blonde streak flying towards her, had been to protect the books, patted her hostess's back awkwardly with one hand, the other extended behind her, groping jerkily at the precious contents of all those bags.

"Um, it's nice to see you again too," she finally managed. "Merry Christmas."

Recovering her dignity, Wendy released Michelle and stepped back from the door to let the girls inside, blushing sheepishly.

"Sorry; I was so afraid it might be some of the relatives, and Maggie isn't here yet, and I don't know what everyone takes in their coffee, and I can't just _ask_, because it's some weird family thing that you aren't allowed to."

"Oh," Michelle said, quite at a loss, nodding politely.

"Oh, no," Maggie murmured. "It's snowing again."

Michelle gave an alarmed yelp, outside in an instant gathering up armfuls of books.

"Michelle, don't push!" Anita ordered as she found herself nudged gently aside.

"Anita, can you help me get all of these inside?" Michelle asked, before promptly dumping three massive bags into Anita's arms. "Try to put them over the heat vents."

"Would you like to use the laundry room?" Wendy asked, hovering nervously at the edge of the flurry of book-sorting.

"I've got the rest," Maggie announced, wedging her way carefully into the front entry with another six massive bags somehow in her grip.

"Right, I'll just go check on the cookies," Wendy announced, departing for the kitchen.

Michelle, Maggie, and Anita looked up in unison.

"Cookies?" Anita repeated, watching her hostess intently.

Wendy stopped short, conscious of three pairs boring into her.

"Em, yes. Sugar cookies. We haven't iced them yet, but we have about nine other kinds of cookies in the freezer, and four kinds of tarts, and three squares, and a jelly roll cake. They're a picky family," she explained as the girls' expressions underwent a shift from interested, to intrigued, to drooling slightly, to disbelieving.

"That must be what I'm smelling!" Michelle chirped happily. "I thought something smelled like gingerbread in here, and—"

"Actually, that's just a candle," Wendy admitted sheepishly. "I tried to make gingerbread men for the kids, but the dough wouldn't hold a shape, so they turned into gingerbread blobs."

"So, where's Drake?" Anita demanded, attention rather torn between the numerous open tins of cookies on the counter and the blonde's reply.

After all, it was great that Drake found someone to settle down with – again – even if it _was_ a psycho's reformed henchwoman. And yeah, those chocolate-chocolate-chunk cookies were only increasing the volume of the growls coming from her stomach. But damn it, she didn't spend fourteen hours on a plane to catch up with a former enemy and still relatively awkward accquaintance. Or even to eat her cookies.

"Hey!"

Four heads turned towards the stairway. At the top, a sleep-rumpled, bleary-eyed blond man stood, glaring down at the girls. Wendy, who had just begun to hope that maybe all awkwardness could fall before the universal pursuit of cookies, turned very deliberately away, counted slowly to ten, and turned back.

"What, Russell?"

"What does a guy have to do for some sleep around here?"

"Oh, I don't know," his sister-in-law replied pleasantly. "Perhaps not try to get it at two in the afternoon?"

His scraggly-bearded face grew panicked.

"Two?! What the shit, Wendy? You were supposed to wake me up at nine!"

"I tried, you idiot!" she barked. "You threw a clock at me! Now for the love of God, go put on some trousers!"

"Yeah," Maggie agreed emphatically, turning carefully away from the man's boxer-clad state.

"W-what about my job?" Russell demanded in a distinctly panicked whine.

With a dramatic sigh, pinching the bridge of her nose wearily, the frilly-apron-clad blonde turned from the kitchen door again.

"Don't worry, I sent Drake in your place."

A long, heavy silence followed, bewildered from Russell and simly a little uncomfortable from Maggie, Michelle, and Anita, who were busily wondering in annoyance if things would start making sense sometime soon.

"You sent Drake to my job?"

"Yes," Wendy replied cheerfully. "And he would like you to know that he's keeping the money. Dumbass," she added as an afterthought.

"Who do you think_that_ was?" Maggie muttered to her elder sister as Russell stomped away, a little black raincloud suspended nearly visibly over his head.

Michelle pondered this.

"Hmm...he's too old to be their son..."

Wendy sighed wearily.

"He's Drake's brother. He's staying with us for a while, while he looks for a new job in town. Unfortunately, his steady schedule of drinking until four in the morning and sleeping until three the next afternoon isn't really helping with that, so the first time he actually managed to_get_ work in months, Drake had to go in his place. Oh, that's where he is right now, by the way," she concluded cheerfully.

"What was the job?" Michelle asked absently, eyes flitting against her will to the two tins of cookies, one homemade Oreos and one chocolate chip, making their way to the table. She was here to see her friends, not for the Christmas baking. But eight hours since her last meal, which had been a teeny-tiny complimentary muffin from the hotel, did make it a bit difficult to resist those soft, chewy chocolate slabs and sugary cream filling...

"He's dressing up as Santa in a mall," Wendy replied quickly, smoothing out the dancing-reindeer-patterned tablecloth. "Anyone for hot chocolate?"

It was the statement rather than the subsequent, and rather irrelevant, question that made a sensation; when Wendy looked up from the task of filling the kettle, it was to find three pairs of eyes fixed to her, the corresponding expressions hovering just on the right side of shocked.

"Santa?" Anita finally managed to repeat after a long pause and just a tiny bit of floundering.

"You know, he's the jolly old man who brings presents!" Michelle explained.

"I _know_ who Santa is," the sorta-redhead huffed. Then she snickered. "Drake's really stuck in a mall dressed up as Santa?"

"And crawling with adorable, bright-eyed little children," Wendy confirmed cheerfully, her own eyes growing a little starry at the thought. "He looked _so_ cute this morning, with the big red coat, and the beard, and the hat, and the pillow stuffed in his shirt—"

"Okay, let's go," Anita interjected, snagging a few cookies from the table with one hand, and siezing her hostess by the arm with the other. "I have to see this."

"I want to come too!" Michelle squealed, likewise considerately lightening the load of cookies that the unfortunate plate was forced to endure.

As two sisters and a former enemy watched her expectantly, Maggie shrank back into her turtleneck sweater.

"Uh...can I borrow your broom closet?"

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Drake uttered a pained groan as the skull-splitting wail grew nearer.

There it was: the source of his severe Advil dependency for the last forty-five minutes. One of the _sweet little children_ his adored, but delusional wife mentioned earlier, its _bright shining face_ vividly red with tantrum and streaked with angry tears.

But what the hell. The replacement Santa was due within the hour to give him a much-needed, much-delayed lunch break, and there was still the matter of that full-body massage.

Spirits buoyed by this thought, he gave the youngster as beaming a smile as he could manage through his beard, and beckoned the family forward.

"Hey there, young man!" he boomed in the same Santa-voice that had been wreaking havoc on his throat since ten that morning. "Why don't you come tell Santa what he can bring you for Christmas?"

The tiny dark-haired child, just begun to calm to his mother's cuddles and his father's pats, started at this sudden assault on his two-year old ears, and launched immediately back into a full-bodied wail again.

"Sorry," Drake muttered to the woman as she settled her son onto his lap. He addressed the frantically squirming child. "Don't worry, buddy, just relax and have a little visit with Santa."

'Buddy', it seemed, was disinclined to do so, and the next instant, Drake gave a shout of pain as a little Spiderman winter boot connected with the area that had been considering a Santa-hat-and-only-Santa-hat-clad Wendy with the most anticipation.

He sent the child's horrified mother and guiltily snickering father a grimace that fell just short of a smile.

"Why don't we make this one a family portrait?"

And so, with Mommy kneeling by Santa's chair, Daddy standing directly behind, and an extra-special cherry candy cane clasped in his sticky hand and smeared all over his face, one more child's yearly Santa-visit drew to an end.

Only once the family was safely out of the winter wonderland of paint, cardboard and cotton did Drake allow himself a sigh of relief. At least, until yet another furious wail issued forth from the long, snaking line.

"Ugh," he muttered, a split second before he became aware of a very familiar laugh from the front of the line. He looked up, and burst into his most genuine smile of the day.

"Hey, what do you know?" he laughed to the crowd of children, rising from his chair. "It's Mrs. Claus!"

Wendy had certainly dressed the part, with the little scarlet winter jacket and matching mittens and hat, trimmed in white fur. Her cheeks, already pink from the cranked up mall heating, deepened in colour when he caught her up in an embrace and kiss, and the little onlookers shrieked with delighted, horrified laughter.

"And Anita the Happy Elf!" another voice, still familiar but far less so, added with a giggle, its pretty blonde owner gently shoving a furious, scowling bright red barely-teen from within the crowd.

"Anita the Happy Elf," he repeated thoughtfully, grinning at each of the girls in turn. "I like it."

"Now, go get a picture with Santa!" Michelle continued excitedly, nudging her little sister forward.

"No," Anita said flatly, digging the heels of her winter boots into the fluffy cotton snow as effectively as she could.

Michelle's ecstatic smile wilted.

"But why not?"

"You don't think_fourteen _is too old for this?" Anita demanded incredulously.

"Then why'd you stand in line for an hour?" Drake wondered, scratching his severely overheated head through a hat and a wig.

"To see you in a dumb costume! No one said _I'd_ have to do anything!"

"Okay, fine," Michelle huffed, grabbing Wendy's arm on her way to Santa. "Then we'll do it."

"I guess as long as you come with presents, you get all the chicks," Anita snickered, her spirits rapidly improving now that they were back to the good-natured torment she'd had in mind.

"Just take the damn picture," a badly embarrassed Santa grumbled at the cameraman as the girls perched on either knee kissed his cheek playfully.

"Language, Mr. Claus," Wendy admonished, tugging lightly at his beard. "There are small ears about."

He glared, then pulled her closer and whispered something indistinguishable.

"Oh, my! I don't know if I can bend that way anymore," she admitted, bright red and giddy as Michelle giggled wildly to her right.

"All right, ladies, move it along," Anita ordered, siezing each mirthful young woman by an arm and dragging them toward the exit. "Let's give someone else a chance with the big guy."

Drake, who was still grinning from the effects of a wriggling little wife on his knee, felt his mood instantly crash and burn as approximately the front tenth of the line approached, in the form of a family with eight children, whose parents proceeded to pack a set of triplets and two sets of twins into his lap as best they could.

"Huh...maybe we should get the picture first," he pondered, making a quick grab for the back of a powder-pink parka as one of the little girls began to slip.

"Okay, just a second," the family's frazzled matriarch requested, hurrying back to the crowd and leading from it something that made the unfortunate Mr. Claus's blood run cold: a healthy-sized Golden Retriever, apparently still a puppy at heart, who seemed to believe that everyone present had assembled specifically to play with him, making it his solemn duty to greet each and every one with a series of frantic barks and licks. "We can't forget Jingles."

Anita, who had stopped short at the exit from the Winter Wonderland at the sound of commotion behind her, sighed blissfully at the sight of Drake crawling with children and returning the dog's friendly greeting with a look of unparallelled loathing.

"You know, it's like visiting the Grand Canyon; I'd make the whole trip again, just to see this."

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"What a lovely day!" Wendy said happily several hours later, nearly skipping into the bedroom, paying little notice to the still-Santa-clad husband stomping in after her. "Drake, wasn't it a lovely day?" 

"Yeah; great," he said flatly, shooting her a glare as he yanked off his beard.

"Your family are all so sweet," the little blonde gushed. "And the children are so sweet, and so well-behaved!"

"That's because _you_ didn't have to deal with them."

Her little bubble of elation sagging a bit, she sent him a reproachful look.

"What's got you in a mood?"

He froze in the act of de-booting, and stared disbelievingly.

"I spent the day in a mall, the weekend before Christmas, dealing with every personality disorder in the book. Every whiny, snivelling brat in the city showed up there today. And on top of that, I had to deal with a bunch of kids! Do you know how many Christmas lists I've heard in the last twelve hours?"

Wendy apparently did not know, and simply gaped foolishly.

"And I guess you and Michelle think it was really cute, backing up all our local rugrats and getting me stuck in this stupid get-up for the rest of the day too."

"W-well, Maggie and Anita helped," she pointed out lamely, starting to pat his shoulder comfortingly, and then thinking better of it and maintaining a safe distance. "Even Maggie Mui helped, once Anita dragged her out of the closet and took her books away."

When the only reply to this was a disgruntled mutter, she thought better of shying away, and inched over to the bed, crawling on behind him and rubbing his tensed muscles through layers of synthetic fur.

With a sound approaching a growl, he turned and caught her hands in one fluid, lightning-quick motion.

"S-sorry," she squeaked, trying to squirm away, eyes big and nervous.

Glare softening into an intent gaze, he worked quickly at the buttons of her little red cardigan, and then made equally short work of her blouse. Catching her eyes again, he grinned at the utter bewilderment in her expression, and then pulled off his hat and settled it over her hair.

Realization dawning, she broke into a huge grin, which, with the top half of her face obscured by headwear meant for a head much bigger than hers, produced an effect something like a widely smiling hat.

"Let me go get the massage oil."

A series of thuds and crashes followed her into their generously sized walk-in closet, and he found himself torn between wincing and chuckling as a series of dismayed little squeaks issued forth in time.

"You okay?" he called.

"Just fine," she replied cheerfully. "Our clothes might smell a little bit like gingerbread for the next while, is all."

He chuckled, shaking his head, and then came to a halt as she emerged from the closet, now wearing _only _his Santa-hat. His laughter fell into happily stunned silence as she approached, tossed the bottle of oil to the bed beside him, and climbed into his lap.

"Oh, Mr. Claus, I know that you're tired of hearing Christmas lists after today, but do you think you could make just one exception, for your faithful masseuse?" She fixed him with wide, appealing eyes, hands meandering down past the waistband of his red Santa-pants. "There's really only one thing I want..."

His grin stretching beyond the reaches of a normal human face, he reached up to adjust her hat, before pulling her more securely into his lap.

"Ho, ho, ho."

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End Notes: Just short of the fifteenth page! Whoo!


End file.
